I spent last week in LA, and in the desert out at Joshua tree. The desert was so quiet, you could hear the silence. And the air was bright and crisp and I felt peaceful and free, if only briefly. And I won't say I forgot about you that week, but I was distracted -- constantly with people and busy. I've been to LA a million times, but never with you, so in that sort of situation it's very easy to imagine you're just back in Port Jeff where you belong. You're not gone, just home with Mom.
Something funny happened in the airport while I was getting my lunch, and I walked around chuckling out loud to myself about it. I felt carefree and relaxed, still high from my time out in the desert, in the open and the sun and the blue and the quiet. And then I stopped to adjust the bag on my arm and caught site of a fake gold Oscar trophy in an airport newsstand that said "Best Grandpa." And I burst into tears.
I ran to the closest bathroom and locked myself in a stall. Snot dripped onto the ground before I could grab a tissue. It had been at least a week since I'd watched a small drop of snot hit the gray and grimy floor of a public restroom.
Something about the Best Grandpa trophy set me off. You would have been the best grandpa, and maybe I would have bought you that trophy because it was silly and fun and I think you would have liked it. I think it would have amused you and pleased you. And so suddenly I was mourning what never was. Mourning the fact that if I do ever have kids, they won't know you, and how unbearable is that? My fictional future kids would have absolutely loved you, and you them, and I simply can't believe that will never be the case. How silly, to mourn something that never will be, that never was.
For a long time, I think I was pretty much immune to the idea of a biological clock, to the pressure to have children on any sort of timeline. Not because I'm able to stand above the fray, but because I am a little bit stupid, I think, in some instances, and it takes me a while to catch on to the very regular phases of life that everyone else seems to know about without having to be told. I've always been a late bloomer.
And then slowly, quickly, it seemed like everyone around me, all of my friends and peers, were growing into little families of three and four. One kid, two kids, how fast it all happened. And suddenly I was 35. And, if I'm being honest, I don't let myself think about this whole biological clock issue too much, about how I've got to meet someone within the next day or so if we are to be together for a happy two years before having a baby. About how if I want to have a family of my own, a lot of things have to change very quickly.
When you died, it was like rubbing salt in this proverbial wound. Part of me never worried too much about this new family of my own because I still felt like I had a nuclear family of my own. You, Mom, Marc, Megan, you were my family. And one of the first things I thought of when you died was that I wanted a husband and a baby immediately, and then I wept at the unfathomable idea that if I do ever create this mythical family, it will no longer include you. You won't get the chance to be the best grandpa.
I think about how you were with all of our various pets, your grand pets. Whenever you saw Owen you would exclaim "heyyyy, little fat boy! How's my little fat boy?" You'd be laughing, and full of joy. That's how I picture you would be with your grand kids, the ones who may never exist, the ones who will never know you if they do exist. If there is a place that people go when they die, I hope you are there with the little fat boy, and I hope you are laughing.
I miss you so much, Dad.
a
Something funny happened in the airport while I was getting my lunch, and I walked around chuckling out loud to myself about it. I felt carefree and relaxed, still high from my time out in the desert, in the open and the sun and the blue and the quiet. And then I stopped to adjust the bag on my arm and caught site of a fake gold Oscar trophy in an airport newsstand that said "Best Grandpa." And I burst into tears.
I ran to the closest bathroom and locked myself in a stall. Snot dripped onto the ground before I could grab a tissue. It had been at least a week since I'd watched a small drop of snot hit the gray and grimy floor of a public restroom.
Something about the Best Grandpa trophy set me off. You would have been the best grandpa, and maybe I would have bought you that trophy because it was silly and fun and I think you would have liked it. I think it would have amused you and pleased you. And so suddenly I was mourning what never was. Mourning the fact that if I do ever have kids, they won't know you, and how unbearable is that? My fictional future kids would have absolutely loved you, and you them, and I simply can't believe that will never be the case. How silly, to mourn something that never will be, that never was.
For a long time, I think I was pretty much immune to the idea of a biological clock, to the pressure to have children on any sort of timeline. Not because I'm able to stand above the fray, but because I am a little bit stupid, I think, in some instances, and it takes me a while to catch on to the very regular phases of life that everyone else seems to know about without having to be told. I've always been a late bloomer.
And then slowly, quickly, it seemed like everyone around me, all of my friends and peers, were growing into little families of three and four. One kid, two kids, how fast it all happened. And suddenly I was 35. And, if I'm being honest, I don't let myself think about this whole biological clock issue too much, about how I've got to meet someone within the next day or so if we are to be together for a happy two years before having a baby. About how if I want to have a family of my own, a lot of things have to change very quickly.
When you died, it was like rubbing salt in this proverbial wound. Part of me never worried too much about this new family of my own because I still felt like I had a nuclear family of my own. You, Mom, Marc, Megan, you were my family. And one of the first things I thought of when you died was that I wanted a husband and a baby immediately, and then I wept at the unfathomable idea that if I do ever create this mythical family, it will no longer include you. You won't get the chance to be the best grandpa.
I think about how you were with all of our various pets, your grand pets. Whenever you saw Owen you would exclaim "heyyyy, little fat boy! How's my little fat boy?" You'd be laughing, and full of joy. That's how I picture you would be with your grand kids, the ones who may never exist, the ones who will never know you if they do exist. If there is a place that people go when they die, I hope you are there with the little fat boy, and I hope you are laughing.
I miss you so much, Dad.
a
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